


Frog-Catcher

by copper_dust



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adolescence, Gen, Growing Up, Pre-Canon, Prisoner of Azkaban, Summer Vacation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copper_dust/pseuds/copper_dust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summer of '73. Over the course of several days, Remus Lupin navigates through the murky swamp between childhood and adolescence, aided by his first and most precarious of friendships. Twenty years on, he finds that muddy swamp water runs deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Ghost, A Grownup and a Greeting

**Author's Note:**

> This story will be published serially, one chapter at a time. Completed, it will run 4-6 chapters.

 

 

Professor R. J. Lupin stood in the patchy robes worn grey from countless launderings, holding his wand up to a [SINGLE](https://www.fanfiction.net/story/story_preview.php?storyid=10972317&chapter=1#) piece of parchment. Bluish light danced off the rutted stone corridor. His head was crooked to the side slightly, as if to question the parchment, though it was completely blank. In the shadows, a cat's tail flicked by and disappeared as quickly. Only the professor's eyes moved up and down the paper, reading the greasy thumb print in one corner, the worn folding marks dividing the page into eighths. Not a sound interrupted his reverie.

"Everything all right, Professor?" asked a kindly voice emerging from the solid, stone wall.

"Yes, thank you, Friar," replied the professor politely. Though he had not lifted his eyes from the parchment, his demeanor evinced no surprise at the ghost's unheralded appearance.

"The headmaster has sent his regards. He's asked me to let you know that a fresh box of cinnamon rolls has found its way to the staff room." The Fat Friar smiled wistfully. "How I  _do_  miss the creature comforts..." he murmured as he drifted on through a mouldy tapestry.

Professor Lupin remained silent. He touched the middle of the parchment with one finger. A fingerprint sprouted from the centre of his touch, glowing violet and spreading forth, its whorls and spirals curling like vines. And then a line of writing unfurled. It was hasty cursive, a young man's scrawl.

_Indicium Aedificis_

The glowing words melted back into the parchment and disappeared, along with the fingerprint.

"But how did—hmmm," wondered Lupin. "Unless it recognizes—but I don't think... it could."

* * *

 

"Good morning,  _fy gariad_. How's the head doing? Good, I see the bump's nearly gone."

Remus scowled and pulled the blanket over his head.

"Up you get, come on. I made breakfast and your room needs tidying before your friend gets here." Mrs. Lupin bent over to pick up a pair of trousers that had been tossed haphazardly onto the laundry hamper's lid. The attic room was mostly neat, though several books sat on the floor, and unfolded robes were spilling out of the trunk.

Remus made a muffled moaning noise, which might have been interpreted as "I don't need to get up this early to pick up textbooks off the floor and put them on a different part of the floor." Mrs. Lupin ignored the semi-verbal communiqué and pulled open the dusty blue drapes. The sky was dark and overcast, fraught with a humid tension.

"Oh dear," said Mrs. Lupin. "I hope the roads don't flood over. A storm is coming."

Remus rubbed the crust out of his eyes with a balled up fist. Slowly, he peeled back the covers and glanced out the window. It did look ominous out there. However, he was unconcerned as could be.

"Mam, James' whole _family_  is magic," he said with exasperation. "They don't  _need_  to worry about the weather." As far as he knew, the Potters didn't need to worry about anything.

"I guess you're right, then," his mother said nervously. "I do forget these things. You know." She clasped and unclasped her hands and then eyed the overflowing trunk, where the black robes formed a sort of waterfall, which drained into a puddle of cloak. Unable to help herself, she folded the pile and placed it back into the trunk neatly.

Remus could hear the shift in her tone and knew not to push further. "I'll get dressed," he said. "Why don't you go on and eat and I'll be down in a few minutes."

Mrs. Lupin, satisfied in the compromise, kissed Remus on the forehead (he shrugged her off predictably) and headed down the ladder that led to the main floor. As soon as she was gone, Remus got out of bed and tipped his trunk over, spilling a mess of robes, quills, socks and various trinkets onto the wood plank floor. He went to his bookshelves, which were really just milk bottle crates turned on their sides, and rearranged the books into a random order. Without magic, messing up a room properly took about as much work as cleaning it up. You couldn't just throw some things about and leave the bed unmade and think that it would be convincing enough. Maybe it would be to some people –people like Mrs. Lupin–but it took more effort to deceive a habitual deceiver like James.

The postcards Remus had collected from all over Europe–cards he had purchased himself, never written in or sent to anybody –were tacked to the wall too carefully. He had hung butterfly clips on the thumbtacks and clamped the cards in the clips so that he would not have to pierce holes in the postcards; however, Remus knew this type of consideration was much too precious for a thirteen-year-old Gryffindor. (Maybe there was more leeway for such things in Ravenclaw.) He faced the uncertain choice between messily re-hanging the postcards with thumbtacks pierced right through, or taking down all the cards and letting James think he'd never been anywhere or done anything exciting that James hadn't done twice over.

Remus realized he could fix the cards with magic later. He tacked them up as carelessly as possible. The Icelandic moving postcard of a real white-knuckled water troll got pride of place in the centre, because James got a kick out of that sort of thing.

Remus heaped another serving of scrambled eggs onto his plate as his father prepared to leave for work.

"Goodbye, dear," he said, kissing Mrs. Lupin on the cheek as she scrubbed dishes. He pointed his wand at the sink. " _Scourgify_!" he said, cleaning all the plates at once.

" _Diolch_ , Lyall," she said appreciatively.

"Remus," said Mr. Lupin, "tell your friend hello from me when he gets here. I'll be home late. And for Merlin's sake," he lowered his voice, "be  _discreet_ this time."

"He already knows, Dad," Remus sighed grumpily into his eggs.

"I meant playing in front of the Muggle children. You  _know_  we don't need another Ministry visit –"

"That was literally one time!" insisted Remus, looking for support from his mother, who turned away and scrubbed the perfectly clean plates while humming a tuneless melody.

"Well, I know that," said Mr. Lupin as he stepped out of the cramped kitchen and into the hall. "And I know your friend knows, I spoke with your Head of House. Have a nice day, darling," he nodded towards Mrs. Lupin. And with a loud  _crack!_ , he Disapparated.

Mrs. Lupin jumped at the sound. "You know, I still can't get used to that," she said.

"I s'pose you'll have to when I start doing it." Remus reached for the milk and poured it into his mug until the coffee was off-white in colour. Caffeine gave him headaches, but he needed it for today.

"But Daddy said it was really dangerous, didn't he? He said if you messed up, you could splink –"

" _Splinch_ ," he corrected through gritted teeth.

" – _splinch_  yourself right in half."

"Well, you won't have to worry about it 'till I'm of age, then." Remus gulped down the rest of his coffee and pushed his chair back from the table. He fixed his mother with a plaintive look. "And please don't call him  _Daddy_  in front of James. I know he has a first name, really.

Mrs. Lupin's brow furrowed hesitantly. She took a step towards Remus but then paused and stepped back. Her son was quite a bit taller than she remembered, his lanky frame recalling a giraffe's awkward posture.

"Remus," she began tentatively. "I'll...be in the garden. I won't bother you two, I promise. You won't even know I'm there. Why don't you show him the falcon's nest out back?"

Remus paused.  _Because James has a whole owlery at his house_. "Okay," he said.

Mrs. Lupin smiled at him lightly. Her pale brown hair was tucked into two messy braids. She wore her gardening galoshes and a muddy apron. Remus thought she looked sad but not anymore than she usually did. He helped her get the big pruners off the highest shelf in the storage closet and she pressed a shiny pound into his palm.

"Thank you,  _annwyl._  Buy yourselves something tasty in the village."

"Thank you, Mam," he said, and scrambled up the ladder.

* * *

 

The upper-years' Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom was a cavernous space with a tall, groin-vaulted ceiling. The evening light filtered through blue and red stained-glass windows, casting a coloured pattern onto the ancient desks. Professor Lupin had often admired his luck in landing such a beautiful class in which to teach, but that evening, he strode through the room towards his office without noticing his surroundings. Through a door locked by several varieties of complicated spellwork, as well as an old-fashioned Muggle lock (for cats had an uncanny ability to disregard the laws of magic when it suited them) laid his office, which connected to the lower years-Defence classroom on the other side. He quickly removed his cloak and lit a lamp. Lupin sat down at his desk and placed the blank sheet of parchment down on it. He tapped it with his wand once and whispered, " _Latronem sum_ , and you, I presume?" The words already tasted silly in his mouth, but then, they hadn't been his idea.

The names appeared. They were familiar and foreign, like a mother tongue long abandoned when he arrived on a faraway shore. Professor Lupin instinctively curled a hand around the top of the map as though to shield it from the prying eyes of classmates long gone.

_Messrs. Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs_

_are positively flatulent with joy_

_upon the long-awaited return_

_of Messr. Moony_

_to their humble creation._

He couldn't help but smile as the paragraph faded away, to be replaced by two words.

_"Toujours Furr"_


	2. Forests and Jungles

James was due at eleven, but Remus was already having tea in the kitchen when he arrived that afternoon. Ignoring the doorknocker, James rapped on the kitchen window and motioned frantically for Remus to open the door. He was drenched, the rain having arrived as expected. His hair was matted down, his bangs criss-crossing his forehead at weird angles, while his glasses were practically opaque with beaded droplets.

 

            "Thanks, mate. It's a mess out there! I tried to Floo, but my Dad said you weren't connected to the network," said James all at once, as he dropped his sopping rucksack to the floor. "Why's that? Anyways, I wasn't going to give up the chance to take the train up by myself. I stopped in Blackpool for a bit," he grinned, "that's why I'm a tad late."

           

            "You came up by yourself?" Remus asked, trying to hide how impressed he was.

 

            "Yeah, mostly. I mean, my dad dropped me at the station in Devon. He didn't think I'd figure out the whole Muggle system on my own. Isn't that rubbish?"

  
            Remus nodded.

 

            "I showed _him_. D'you know he thought the trolley girl would take half-crowns? Old people don't know _anything_ about the world, honestly." James ran a hand through his hair, scattering a shower of droplets onto the photograph framed on the wall behind him.

 

            "D'you want to come upstairs? Put away your stuff?" Remus offered, glancing toward the ladder. He had a feeling James would appreciate climbing a ladder rather than steps; it was just the sort of inconvenience he went for.

 

            "Hello, you must be freezing. Remus, why don't you offer your friend some tea?" Mrs. Lupin emerged from the den, having removed her galoshes. In her bare feet and patched jeans, she seemed hardly old enough to be Remus' mother, but for the crow's feet and dark circles beneath her eyes. "James, isn't it?"

 

            "That's the one. You're Mrs. Lupin?" James raised his eyebrows. His parents, Remus knew, were quite a bit older than the Lupins.

 

            "Oh, that makes me feel so old! You can call me Hope," she said. "Go put the kettle on, _fy gariad_ ," she told Remus. "I'll take your things and hang them up to dry. Maybe Remus can lend you something to wear until your clothes—"

 

            "How was the Tornadoes game?" Remus interrupted loudly. "Wish I could have gone." He shot his mother a pointed look and she took James' rucksack and hurried into the kitchen.

           

            "It was amazing! For the Tornadoes, I mean. I don't think the Wasps felt that way," said James sympathetically. "They won four-hundred and ninety to a hundred fifty. Stempleton practically _let_ the Wasps get the Snitch. I think he felt bad enough. I got a poster at the game, I'll bring it to school this fall." He glanced at the ladder descending from the opening in the ceiling. "What's that? Have you got an attic? Do you have a ghoul?" he asked, sounding excited.

 

            "It's sort of an attic—my room's up there. We don't have a ghoul, though..."

           

            "You might," James encouraged him. "I can check. If there is one, we can try to persuade it into a trunk...I'll sic it on Sirius when I'm in London next month." Remus laughed.

           

            James shed his muddy shoes and left them in the middle of the hall. He followed Remus up the ladder, his wet sock feet slipping across the rungs. Remus skipped the last rung, hoisting himself up through the opening out of unconscious habit. James took this for a challenge, and skipped the top _three_ rungs, bouncing off the lower run and grabbing the edge of the opening with the tips of his fingers. The ladder fell down with a clatter but before Remus could offer a hand, James had heaved his stomach onto the bedroom's floor. Grinning up at Remus, he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

 

            "This is so cool," he said. "Wish I could get rid of the stairs in _my_ house. For some reason, my parents think everywhere should be so easy to get to."

           

            Remus smirked, though he was beaming inside. He sat down on the floor and watched James wander around the room, picking up various objects and inspecting the books on his shelf with unabashed curiosity.

 

            "Is this a Sneakoscope?" he asked Remus, holding up a plastic toy.

 

            "No. It's just a spinning top...it's not magic." He blushed. "I should throw that away, it's ancient."

 

            "Can I have it?" James pocketed it before Remus could answer. "Looks enough like the real thing for some purposes. I can charm it anyways." He went to the window at the back of the bedroom and gazed out over the garden outside. Behind the wrought-iron lawn table and chairs was a vegetable patch, which marked the boundary between the Lupins' yard and the woods. The rain was still pouring, pushing down on the thick tangle of leaves in the woods. A solid stream of water dripped down from the eaves and over Remus's window.

           

            "Boys?" called Mrs. Lupin from downstairs. Remus went over to the opening in the floor. His mother was standing under it, replacing the ladder against the wall. "Do you want to come finish tea? Help yourselves. There's extra jam in the top cupboard if you need. I'm afraid Remus goes through it rather quickly."

 

            "Food?" James whipped around. "This is like a proper _hotel_. My mum's elf's so old he can't even be bothered to chase me out of the kitchen anymore; he just locks the pantry and Lindy won't touch the stove before six o'clock." He was at the opening in the floor faster than Remus could mentally register that James had more than one house-elf. James ignored the ladder and merely jumped all the way to the lower floor, bending his knees with feline grace as he landed on two feet. Remus followed him.

 

            Mrs. Lupin headed to the study so they could eat by themselves in the kitchen. James took a heaping portion of yoghurt and blackberries before shoving half a scone into his mouth with one bite while Remus poured himself a cup of orange squash. He was digging into his food as if he hadn't eaten in several weeks, though Remus knew from experience that a week in James' perception generally translated to an hour in the rest of the world. The silence between them as they ate was uncanny. Usually, Sirius and Peter were there to fill the gaps in conversation with an unrelenting stream of jokes and teasing and conspiratorial whispers. Without them, the tapping of the rain and sighing of the wind in the trees engaged in an ersatz repartee. Remus found himself wondering whether he had _ever_ spent times alone with James before.

           

            Outside, the rain was gradually slowed. The heavy stream running down the kitchen window was coming from the sopping thatched roof of the house, rather than the rain itself. James cocked his head to the side, noticing way the sound of the storm was dying down.

           

            "So, what are we going to do?"

           

            "Well, I thought we might play Exploding Snap. I have a new pack somewhere," said Remus.

 

            "Sure," said James loudly. Then he leaned closer and said under his breath, "But I mean, what are we _really_ going to do?"

 

            "Er—" He paused and felt his hands dampen with sweat. This was the sort of thing that he should have considered earlier—should have _known_ , really, that of course James hadn't come all the way to Northumbria to play card games they'd played when they were eight. He fiddled with the pocket of his shorts nervously and felt the solid metal of the coin.

 

            "I thought we could go into town," Remus shrugged. "I've got some money."

 

            "Cool. Muggle money or _real_ money?"

 

            "Muggle money. But it's really a Muggle area, so—"

           

            "So we can go to the Muggle shops? I spent all my Muggle money at Blackpool" said James, grinning. Remus recognized the gleam in his eye and felt the beginnings of a smile tug at his own lips.

           

            "Yep."

 

            "Good, I can get something _eclectical_ to prank Sirius' brother. Sirius said he doesn't know anything about Muggle stuff so he'll be scared out of his mind. Do you have any ideas?"

 

            "I'll think about it," said Remus, trying to remember what a pound's equivalent value in Sickles was. James may have handled Muggle money earlier that day but Remus knew his understanding of relative value and purchasing power was fuzzy, especially since his pockets were always so heavy.

 

            They got up from the table and Remus took both their plates to the sink. He rinsed them and scrubbed off the congealing jam and yoghurt smears with a moulding orange sponge.

           

            "Grounded?" James asked knowingly. "I was too, when I first got home. McGonagall sent another owl."

 

            "What?"

           

            "My dad made me do the dishes without magic, and clear the table, _and_ clean out the owlery." He shuddered at the memory. "But it was either that or miss the Tornadoes so obviously I'd rather not miss going to the game."

 

            "Oh. No, I just clean up so the kitchen doesn't get smelly. My dad's getting home late tonight."

 

            "Just let your mum do it, then," James said casually, as he climbed onto the counter and sat down. "It's ten times faster with a wand." He swung his legs out with a jovial kick.

 

            "My mum can't do it that way. She's not magic, remember?"

 

            James looked mildly surprised. "Your mum's not magic? I thought she was just a Muggle-born. Weird. But you're so good at—I mean, you're really natural with, y'know, Defense and Charms and stuff."

 

            "So..." Remus said gently.

 

            "So, sometimes it's just like—hermetitary, when you're good at something, right?"

           

            "You mean hereditary?"

 

            "Yeah," said James with enthusiasm, "that's what I said. Like how my mum is really good at flying so I'm best at Quidditch. Anyways. You know what I mean; you always do," he said, flashing Remus with the sweet smile that always, _always_ got him out of trouble at the last minute. The sun itself seemed to swim out from behind the stormclouds and radiate from the lenses of James' glasses and through the twin buttonhole dimples that appeared when he smiled.

 

            "My mum likes to garden," said Remus. "She's really good with plants. I don't know why I'm rubbish at Herbology, though."

 

            "Yeah, but we're _all_ rubbish at Herbology. It's like Care of Magical Creatures but nothing _moves,_ " scoffed James, with all the distaste of someone for whom stillness was a cardinal sin.

 

            His legs dangled several inches over the lineoleum floor. When Remus would sit on the counter—which he was not supposed to do anymore—his feet reached the floor. He took in this recent change in their relative heights with some satisfaction.

           

            "So are we going now, or what?" James slipped off the counter and ran to the hallway to get his rucksack, which was still soaked all the way through. "I want to leave before the rain stops so we can go mud sliding."

 

            " I thought you wanted to go to town, though."

           

            "I do," said James, as he wiped his glasses clean with the hem of the window's lace curtains. "But we can't wait for the ground to dry up, can we? Let's just go after."

 

            "Alright. I'll run upstairs and get macs. Also, the Omnioculars."

 

            Remus was already up the ladder and rummaging through his trunk when he heard James call out from downstairs, "What do I need a macintosh for? I'm waterproof, aren't I?"

 

            Remus whipped a bundle of socks down at his head affectionately. The thing about James-logic was that if you thought about it, your mind would get tired running in circles; but as soon as it was spoken aloud, instantly it became objective truth, retroactively passed down in secret through the ages until James Potter finally deigned to announce it to the mortals in plain English. After that, the universe would rearrange itself in order to conform to the laws of James-logic. Remus had been one of the first amateur logicians at Hogwarts to make this discovery and as such, had been unexpectedly pulled into the inner orbit of his hot, swirling ball of pure energy; James, the star that answered to no call of gravity but that of Sirius, brightest light in the black night sky.

 

* * *

 

            " 'Evenin' to you, Remus," said Hagrid with a jovial grin. "Or should I say, Professor?"

           

            "Remus suits me perfectly, thank you."

 

            "Not forgetting 'bout your position, but I remember when you were jus' this high," Hagrid held a hand up to hip; the Professor had actually not reached that height as an adult and never would.

 

            "Come in, come in. Make yerself at home. Kettle's on, sorry 'bout the cakes but they're no' done quite yet. If I'd known you was comin', I'd have started them earlier."

 

            "Thank you, Hagrid," said Professor Lupin as limped into the hut. He closed the door and sat down at the table, setting his briefcase down on the floor. Fang wandered over and sniffed at the battered leather. His mouth opened and tough rope of saliva dripped down like slow molasses.

 

            "Fangy! No! Bad pup," chastised Hagrid. He lifted Fang away from the briefcase and settled him on his lap like a small lapdog. Fang happily drooled into his lap as Hagrid reached for a well-mangled bone on a shelf. "So, how's teachin' treating ye? I've heard loads o' good stuff 'bout yer lessons from the kids." He leaned forward and looked Professor Lupin in the eye and said, "And no' jus' from the Gryffindors neither."

 

            "Teaching is going well, actually. The students are quite eager to learn, particularly since they've had a—a turbulent couple of years, in my subject," Professor Lupin said and held his tin mug out for Hagrid to pour the hot water.

 

            "You can say tha'." He filled Professor Lupin's cup right to the brim. "Not that I'm criticizing Professor Dumbledore's hirin' or anything," Hagrid added hastily. "He's go' his reasons, I reckon."

 

            "That he does," agreed Lupin drily, thinking of an office storeroom filled with cork-stoppered bottles glimmering in the torchlight.

 

            "Brilliant man, tha' Dumbledore. Gave me a promotion this year—still hard to think of myself as a _professor_ ," Hagrid said, beaming. He stuck his long arm directly into the fireplace and retrieved a red-hot iron skillet from the flames barehanded. "Rock cakes. Want one?"

 

            Professor Lupin did not particularly want one, but accepted one anyways. Pretending to bite into its unbreakable surface, he gave Hagrid an encouraging nod. He pretended to swallow and briskly said, "Delicious. Thank you."

 

            "My famous recipe, tha' is. Pomona taught me that about ten years back."

           

            "I'll be sure to give her my thanks," said Lupin. "How are your classes going?"

 

            "They're goin'...along," said Hagrid uncertainly.

 

            "Something wrong?"

 

            "Jus' had spot of trouble with that Slytherin kid an' there's going to be a whole inquiry now." His smile dissolved into a look of bitterness. He stroked Fang's ears and said, "Don' know wha' I'd do withou' Dumbledore. He's helpin' me to fight the case."

 

            "Was anyone hurt?" asked Lupin.

 

            Hagrid shook his head, his beard whipping Fang across the face. "Ah, not really. I was doin' Hippogriffs with the third-years an' the kid got disrespectful towards 'em, and you know they don't take well..."

 

            Lupin cringed inwardly. _Hippogriffs_? With _third_ years? He could only imagine how his friends would have fared with creatures as proud and as quick to provoke as—as James, really, he realized with a hollow twinge.

 

            "Well, if there's anything I can do to help prepare for the inquiry, Hagrid, don't hesitate," Lupin said kindly. "You know where my office is?"

 

"Yup. Back o' the Defense classroom." Hagrid said, his facial expression returning to a smile. "Still can't believe how grown up ye've gotten. Guess it's just me gettin' older though, seein' as it's been, what? Twenty, twenty-five years?"

 

            "Fifteen since I graduated," said Lupin. He sipped his tea in order to hide the melancholy sweeping through his smile."Though I don't look it, I know."

 

            "Don' we all, though," Hagrid said good-naturedly. "Kids will do tha' to ye." He laughed. "Though it's hard no' to miss 'em when they grow up." He looked down into his teacup, smiling with nostalgia. Lupin quietly hoped that he was not about to bring up what was probably bound to come up at some point.

           

            "Lucky I never had to grow up, really. Got to stay around Hogwarts and run around the grounds for a livin'," said Hagrid. "Never saw meself gettin' on in the Ministry in some office, ye know. Doubt I could fit under the ceiling," he added as an afterthought.

 

            Lupin laughed. Relieved, he raised his mug and proposed a toast. "To eternal adolescence!"

 

            "To maternal, er odali—"

 

            Remus quickly clinked mugs with him before he could complete the sentence. They drained their mugs. A sludge of soggy tea leaves rested on the cup's bottom, forming a sort-of crescent, with a blob in the middle.

 

            "Say, Lupin," Hagrid said all of a sudden. "Ye've had to meet Harry by now, haven't ye?"

 

            Lupin was silent for roughly two seconds. Then he said, "Yes. He is one of my students."

 

            "I met him when he was jus' a wee firs' year. Had to get him from those ruddy Muggles and give him his letter meself," Hagrid grumbled, failing to disguise his pride. "He's grown like climbin' ivy since then, I'll tell ye tha'."

 

            "Has he?" said Lupin politely.

           

            "Oh, yeah." Hagrid bit into a rock cake with a resounding crack, like a bullet shattering glass, but he didn't seem to notice the sound, for he crunched it deafeningly and then swallowed it, wiping his beard with a tiny calico handkerchief. "Tha' family wasn't feedin' him half o' what he gets here, but I recognized him, alright. Don't he look like his dad?"

 

            Lupin swallowed. "He resembles—yes, yes."

           

            "I had a double take when I saw him, wearin' those glasses an' all. An' las' time I saw Harry he was a wee thing in a nappy an' blanket!"

 

"You'd met Harry as a _baby_?" Professor Lupin cut in sharply. "But J—they were in hiding the whole time...you didn't know..." he trailed off. There was no way Hagrid could have seen him at the funeral; he distinctly remembered noticing Harry's absence then. Many other people had too; it seemed as though half of Wizarding Britain had showed up to the ceremony in Godric's Hollow, and the other half had joined them at the burial, most of them craning their necks to and fro, trying to catch a glimpse of the newly famous baby, whose name was splattered across the newspaper, though a photograph never appeared.

           

            "Oh, yeah. Professor Dumbledore go' me to take him to St. Mungo's and up to tha' Muggle family of his, night after You-Know-Who disappeared," said Hagrid nostalgically. "Wasn't even cryin' when I go' him outta the cot...just sat there lookin' at me."

           

            Lupin reached for a napkin to wipe his mouth, not noticing the way his fingers were trembling, but apparently Hagrid did, for he clapped one enormous hand to his mouth, looking embarassed.

 

            "Sorry," he said gruffly. "You were friends with the Potters, weren't ye? I forgot."

 

            Lupin smiled gently. "It's quite alright, Hagrid. That was a long time ago. "

 

            "It's jus' that You-Know-Who gettin' defeated an' all, people want to celebrate—can't say as I didn't get meself a Moonmead or two, but it was real sad, wha' happened to Harry's—"

 

            "I understand. Would you please pour me some more tea?" asked Lupin. He handed Hagrid his mug. Hagrid reached for the iron kettle, which was hanging from a hook over the fire. It looked like it weighed more than some small children.

 

            "There ye go. Careful now, lad, it's nice and hot."

           

            "Thank you." Lupin stared down into the cup as steam spiralled towards his nose. He sprinkled the tea leaves inside and watched them sink down and disappear into the water like snow falling on the sea. Like boots sinking into mud.

 

            Hagrid passed him the milk boat. Lupin nodded at him. "It has gotten so cold outside that I have been asking the house elves for some potatoes I can charm to stay hot in my pockets. They have been very helpful."

 

            "Oh, yeah. All the students used to be sneakin' down there after hours to get cakes and pies or whatnot, 'till Professor Dumbledore said to stop talkin' bout the elves in front o' the kids."

 

            "Yes. I remember that. We used to have to thank them after supper each day. I wonder if they miss it now..." pondered Lupin, who remembered most everything. He picked up a spoon and put it down again, studying the balloon-like reflection of his upside down face.

 

* * *

 

          

  For once, Remus was glad he'd decided to ignore James' bravado and brought a mac to wear. The drizzle was cold and insistent, droplets sliding down his bangs and dripping onto his eyelashes. James, who looked as though he'd gone swimming in his t-shirt and gym shorts, was following Remus unsteadily down the narrow pathway through the forest. He bumped into a tree or tripped over a root occasionally, his glasses having fogged over entirely. If Remus had been half-blind and drenched in a classic English summer storm, tripping every few feet and smearing his knees in the mud, he's be in a pretty foul mood. However, it was _James_ who was half-blind, drenched and muddy, and as usual, James seemed like the luckiest bespectacled lunatic in the world.

           

            "The whole idea was brilliant. Props to you, Remus. I honestly didn't think you had it in you." James was smiling from ear to ear as rain trickled down the trough of his philtrum and into his mouth. He licked his upper lip. "We'll probably get lost in this forest and then we'll _have_ to stay overnight, and nobody can say anything because it was _your_ mum who told you to come to into town."

 

            "Well, I doubt we'll get lost. The path leads directly to the church, and that's near the village square," said Remus, pushing a branch away right before it smacked him in the eyes.

 

            "Yeah, but we're going mudsliding first, and that could be anywhere. We just have to find a hill. A hill in the _forest_."

 

            "James, we can't mudslide in the forest. We'll get devoured by mosquitoes and brutally assaulted by thorny branches." Remus winced as a spiky bush scraped his arm. " _Ow._ That was one there."

 

            "Don't be a girl, I brought a machete. We can cut away the branches, or—

 

            "You brought a _what_? What in Merlin's name did you think we were going to do here that merited bringing a machete?" Remus spun around to look James in the eye. James walked right into him. The frames of his tortoiseshell glasses knocked against Remus's cheekbone painfully.

 

            "Watch it," complained James. "And it's not really a _machete_. It's just a—a really big knife with spikes on one end that's enchanted to cut through anything."

 

            "Well, that is comforting," said Remus drolly. "Did you think I lived in a jungle?"

 

            "Well, you do, don't you?" James scrunched up his nose in a sarcastic pout. It was an expression he usually directed at Peter when Peter was being so irascibly Peter and Remus felt uncomfortable to be on its receiving end. He, Sirius, Peter and James liked to believe they were all on equal footing, a solid steel square, all sharp corners and slick diagonals, but the truth was that their group was somewhat more of a shifting quadrangle. Remus and Peter seemed to take turns occupying the farthest corner from the others, and nobody was more grateful for Peter Pettigrew's existence than Remus.

 

            "This is a forest, not a jungle."

 

            "Same thing," said James, kicking up a splash of muddy water at Remus' ankles.

 

            "A jungle is quite a bit denser than a forest, not to mention hotter and filled with bloody _monkeys_."

 

            "Are you saying jungles are not forests? 'Cause I'm pretty sure _all_ jungles are—"

 

            "That isn't what I said. A forest is a broader geographical category which includes but is not limited to jungles—"

 

            "A forest is not a geographical category, stupid," said James stubbornly, as he followed Remus up a slope littered with broken sticks and crisscrossed with prickly vines. "Geography is about the earth."

 

            "I'm pretty sure geography is the study of the physical features of the planet Earth, not literal sodding _dirt_." He heard James stomp on and break a very thick branch lying across the path. "Also, I meant that the word 'forest'—"

 

            "—for all intents and purposes means the same thing as _jungle_ when we're talking about trees that are trying to eat me and/or urinate on my face. Also, these mosquitoes."

 

            "That's why I said the mud sliding wasn't a good idea here," Remus said airily.

 

            "There'll be mosquitoes _everywhere_. I'm not passing up a decent storm just because your jungle is actually a human buff-it table."

 

            Remus laughed. "I think you mean _buffet_ , and this is a deciduous _forest_." He turned to shoot James a knowing smirk and got hit in the face by a gloppy handful of mud. Luckily, James was far too pleased with himself to realize that no foul deed went unrewarded, for Remus manage to nail his glasses with a more solid chunk of earthy mud, thus blinding him in an unambiguous declaration of war.

 

            "THAT WAS OUT OF BOUNDS AND YOU KNEW IT!" James shouted gleefully, scrambling to find a large enough broken branch to yield as a weapon. "THIS MEANS WAR, YOU SKIVING WEREW-"

 

            "Hush!" he hissed back. "Don't say that so loud, prat!" James looked hurt and Remus immediately felt warm and flushed with guilt. "I mean—don't, y'know..."

 

            James responded diplomatically by jabbing Remus in the bum with a crooked branch. When he jumped in surprise, a glob of mud hit him in the shoulder, staining his striped t-shirt reddish brown. Remus looked down at the mud dripping towards his shorts, unimpressed.

 

            "Wow, what aim. You're a regular sharpshooter for a blind midget, you are."

 

            "How very Slytherin of you. Go for the handicap, of course," James said, wiping his muddy glasses against his t-shirt. "Take advantage of my visual impairment to win the fight. Salazar himself would be so proud." He put his glasses back on; they were still streaked with mud and spotted with fingerprints, but now his shirt was soiled with a giant brown smear. As per usual when it came to dirt, James cared precisely not at all.

 

            "Your _handicap_?" Remus said mildly. "I'll keep that in mind next time you refuse to take notes for me when I have to stay in the hospital wing. Or perhaps, next time _you_ have to stay in the hospital wing."

 

            "Remus, my friend, I wouldn't wish notes History of Magic notes on Snivellus _Snape_ , never mind you. I may have a gruff exterior, but my heart is pure marshmallow fluff," said James, casting Remus the blindingly sweet smile that turned on the sun. Sometimes, his expression resembled Sirius so acutely that he had to remind himself that they actually were related through the tangled spider's web that was pureblood genealogy. "A person does need to get fresh air every once in a while, even if they are some sort of hybrid fifty-year-old man-child who wears a reindeer jumper to the shower."

 

            "I was not _wearing_ it! I was merely attempting to wash out the peanut butter and Stinksap that Peter managed to explode all over the—"

 

            "Are you _quite_ sure that it was Peter?" James asked, raising a mud-caked eyebrow with a genteel expression that didn't quite cover the smirk. Remus merely threw a clump of mud into his hair and shrugged. In fact, he was quite sure that it was Peter, for the peanut butter Stinksap had washed out with _only_ soap and water, and that was not James or Sirius's style.

 

            Remus guided his half-blind friend to the top of the hill. James surveyed the slope into the forested valley with one hand held above his eyes, as if to block the sun (which was entirely concealed behind clouds). Remus fiddled with the muddy stick he had used to poke James, nervously twirling it around like a baton.

           

            "Right, then," said James. "Last one to the bottom's got to kiss Moaning Myrtle." With that, he took off, jumping onto his stomach and gleefully sliding down through the muck, his rucksack sliding down his back so that its contents narrowly avoiding banging into his skull. He whooped with joy.

 

            Remus cringed, watching him gain speed as he approached a cluster of knotted oak trees. "James! James, you're going to—"

 

            "Aargh! Bloody Merlin's effing gym shorts, you bastard! Why didn't you warn me there was a ruddy _wall_ of trees?" He looked up at Remus, squinting into the light of the clearing. "Are you trying to kill me?" He rubbed his head.

 

            "I tried," said Remus, who was suppressing a grin now that he knew James wasn't dead.

           

            "Well," huffed James. "Not much of a warning, then, was it?"

 

            "Tried to kill you, I mean. It breaks my heart, but I just can't take the snoring any longer, love" he replied, a twinge unsettling his stomach as soon as he said it. Was it funny? Was it funnyto _James_ , who was covered entirely in mud, his glasses cracked and his shoulders and forearms bruising before him?

           

James heaved out a dramatic sigh that lasted long enough to raise concerns about his oxygen intake. Then he said forlornly, "It's not the snoring, is it, my darling? You've been...you've been unfaithful. You've been with another man."

 

            "Another _woman_ ," he corrected with a faint smile.

 

            James looked up, his face painted with theatrical shock. "An all-witch affair? How terribly scandalous! Is she at least from a reputable pureblood family?"

 

            "She most certainly—" Remus began, then realized his mistake far too late. James was already grinning far to widely and running a hand through his unruly hair. Remus grinned and shrugged his defeat.

 

            "Hah!" spouted James, propping himself up onto his elbows gingerly. "Sharp, but not quite sharp enough, eh? Come 'ere and help me up. I'm bloody starving and I want to get to town."

 

            "Yes, that was the general idea," said Remus. He picked his way down the hill with care, avoiding the broken branches and prickly vines that grabbed for his shins. His jeans were already too short on him, though it had been less than a year since his dad purchased them at the rummage shop. A ring of mosquito bites encircled his ankles right where his trousers failed to meet his socks. Both ankles were swollen, bloody and bruised from the full moon; transformed, Remus had no ability to restrain the urge to itch, and the smell of blood made his wolf form even more ferocious.

           

            He reached James and pulled him up by the forearms. James grabbed at his bony shoulders to steady himself upright. He seemed somewhat dizzy, probably from hitting his head.

 

            "Alright, mate?"

 

            "Yeah. Just got my glasses all smeared up, but I guess we'll find a loo in Lambstail to wash up at."

           

            "D'you want a hand?" asked Remus.

 

            "Nah, I'm fine. Let's go. D'you think they'll let us get Dragontamers if you say we're sixteen?

           

            It was Remus' opinion that James Potter, at little over five foot two, drenched in mud, his hair standing up as if he'd just been struck by lightning, in broken spectacles and wearing an electric green canvas rucksack which definitely weighed more than he did, certainly did not look as if he could pass for his actual age (thirteen _and a half_ , thank you very much), never mind sixteen. But Remus decided to go for tact on this one, and merely said, "It's a Muggle village. They won't have Dragontamers." Noticing James' disappointment, he added, "But there's a book shop with dirty comics in the back!"

 

            James' smile in reply was warm. Then, a flash of an idea burst across his grin, sly and mischievous enough to twist something in Remus' chest so strongly he felt its bittersweet ache in his heart and then his stomach and then, twenty years later, prickling through his arthritic knuckles as he handed Harry the Butterbeer he suspected was not Harry's first.

 


	3. The Hellion's Prescript

       Professor Lupin grabbed a piece of chalk from a cut-glass bowl on his desk. He had only managed to write the letter "T" on the board before a loud honk echoed through the room, sounding like an entire flock of geese had blown their noses simultaneously. He turned around and surveyed the room. Most of his fifth years were stifling giggles, or openly smirking. Though he had grown to know and respect the Weasley boys' reputation for pranking, it would be premature to make accusations. He merely raised his eyebrows and said lightly, "I suppose I am not the only one getting over a cold, then."

            The class laughed. Lupin turned back to the board and wrote "The Legal Ramifications of Unforgiveable Curses." A symphony of honks, some as high-pitched as a pixie's voice and some low, like a troll's, issued as he traced each letter. Lupin stepped back and eyed the chalk in his hand. An idea occurred to him. "Clever..." he murmured, hearing several giggles behind him. He wrote the letter 'a' three times in a row on the board. Three identical high-pitched tones sounded. He wrote 'z' and heard a deep, bellowing honk. Lupin smiled. He turned to face the class.

            "I see we have a bit of a joker with a taste for music," he said. "I don't think any of you are in Professor Flitwick's choir, though, are you?" The Slytherins rolled their eyes and several Gryffindors laughed.

            " _Nobody_ outside of Ravenclaw does that lame stuff," sighed a Gryffindor girl with pale, milky skin. Lupin had to glance at his seating plan to remember her name—Etain. He didn't recognize her surname; she could not have been a pureblood.

            Lupin returned to the chalkboard. He paused, thinking back to his mother, her messy braids, the painted china lamp that looked like a rocket ship in the house back in Suffolk, back Before. She used to sing to him when she tucked him in at night and he would join along, making her laugh with his unintentional malapropisms, his voice bright and squeaky. Lupin wrote a sequence of letters on the board, and they sang out a well-known melody, a wizarding lullaby almost anyone in the class would know. His dad had taught his mam that one before he was born.

            "That's wicked," said one Weasley twin.

            "How'd you know how to do that off the top of your head?" asked the other, sounding genuinely impressed.

 "They're just musical notes," said Silvanius Nott, sounding bored. "Each one's a half-tone apart, like on a piano."

            "Silvanius is correct," said Professor Lupin with a gracious smile. "But I wonder who will take  credit for this artistic intervention into our OWL preparations today." The classroom went silent for a moment, though quite a few students twitched. "Alright, then, the artist wishes to remain anonymous. In that case, we will continue with our discussion of the Unforgiveable Curses." He strode over to his desk and rummaged around in a drawer for the fifth year textbook‑  _Nox: Practical and Philosophical Investigations into Dark Magic and its Defenses_ . Page 135 was bookmarked with a quill. He scanned down to the paragraph he wanted to quote and then tapped the chalkboard with his wand, muttering "Scourgify." Professor Lupin tapped the board  again ; the text appeared, quite a bit messier than his handwriting, but it would have to do, otherwise the whole period would be lost to honking and giggling. They were already behind because of him; then Snape had to come in and teach a completely irrelevant lesson, confuse all the fifth-years as to what their homework was and try to out him as a werewolf all in one go. You had to give him points, thought Lupin, for hitting several birds with one stone.

            "The Unforgiveable Curses," he said loudly, gathering the class's attention. "Who can tell me what they are?" 

            A jumble of voices responded, talking over each other, some listing the names of the curses, others the incantations and yet others what each curse did.

            "Yes, yes, that is a _list_ of the curses, which I believe you are meant to have covered in your fourth year—but who can tell me what all the curses, considered together, _are_?"

            "Unforgiveable, I'd reckon," said Fred Weasley, who was sitting in George's spot on the seating plan. Lupin had not yet divulged that he could easily tell them apart; it would be difficult to explain.

            "They're dark magic," said Melissa Yaxley, a Slytherin. "They're illegal."

            "All correct answers," said Professor Lupin, sounding amused, "but not quite what I was looking for. What I mean to ask—and there is no hard and fast answer to this question—is this: why are these particular curses unforgiveable? What does casting an Unforgiveable do to the soul of the wizard who casts it?"

            He paced back and forth around the front of the classroom, rolling his wand between his fingers. There were quite a few more Slytherins than Gryffindors in this year. Then again, though Lupin, when you considered that all these kids would have been born during the height of the war, it made sense, given who their parents were. They were fifteen—born in '78 or so. The year he had finally passed his Apparition test, joined the Order of the Phoenix, been interrogated by Ministry bureaucrats for information he could not give.           

            "Well," he said, pausing at the blackboard, half-formed thoughts weaving themselves into coherence in his mind. "The soul—the human soul, at least, is not a solid, stable thing. You've read Anthea Aarons' treatise on deep magic theory in History of Magic, have you not?"

            The professor was greeted with mumbled agreements that assured him that he was correct in having assumed that Aarons was on the history syllabus, and also correct that nobody had actually read her.

            "If you don't remember, Aarons explored the deepest and most profound magics in her famous experimentation, conducted during her travels in the Middle East," he said, and tapped the board with his wand so that notes appeared. "She established that the soul was a mutable, changeable organ—more akin to jello than to stone."

            "Is that why your heart feels so wobbly when you see me?" snickered Lee Jordan to a pretty brunette girl, who half-heartedly levitated her textbook over to smack him in the head. 

            "Yes, yes, it might have been a poor analogy," said Lupin, "but the _point_ is, the casting of an Unforgiveable Curse not only requires a certain level of toxic hatred on the part of the caster, but it also reflects back on the caster some essence of the spell that he or she has just performed."

            Herbert Goyle scrunched up his face and said, "I don't get it."

            "Take the Imperius Curse, for example." Lupin deliberately chose what seemed like the least horrifying of the three curses. "Casting the Imperius Curse removes the _autonomy_ of the victim, leaving them with little to no free will. The wizard or witch who casts it, however, maintains power over both themself and their victim. But successful casting of the Imperius Curse is usually attributed to wizards who are _unable to control their own base urges_ —in this case for power, domination." He realized he'd lost Goyle during the first sentence, but the rest of the class seemed to have leaned forward, their attention caught.

            "Continuing on with our example of the Imperius Curse, maintaining a hold on the curse's subject requires extreme concentration. It is hard enough to steer one's own life without having to perceive and direct somebody else's as well. Perhaps some of you might imagine trying to keep up with more than one class at the same time," he said.  
  
            "I can hardly keep up with one class at a time, and there's two of me," observed George. Fred nodded in agreement.

            Professor Lupin smiled as Fred winked at a girl with tightly braided cornrows. "Yes, of the three Unforgivables, the Imperius is known as the most _mentally_ taxing. Wizards who must maintain control over their subject's behaviour often experience lapses in concentration in their own life, as well as difficulty with cognition, slower response times, inattention to detail and forgetfulness."

            "I wonder if Longbottom's not as thick as he seems," drawled Silvanius Nott.

             Lupin tensed. The image bloomed in his mind, unbidden. Alice in the wheelchair, the spit dripping down her chin, her hands folded weirdly in her lap. Frank sucking on his wand like a dummy, crying out when he burned his tongue. Lupin opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out. He closed it and turned away from the students to the blackboard.

            "Some of these effects," he continued, "last even after the Imperius Curse is lifted. Particularly when the subject is kept geographically distant from the caster, or when the Curse is maintained for a long time, the wizard or witch who casts the Imperius Curse can be left with permanent cognitive damage, which affects the wizard's ability to make choices on their own behalf." The cursive letters unfurled in chalk before him at the touch of his wand. "So you see, the _core_ effect of this particular curse—the removal of autonomy, of free will—this is something which reflects back on the curse's caster."

            He turned to face the class. The kids were all staring up at him, some with awe, others with the pinched expression of either incomprehension or bowel troubles. 

            "Do you understand?" he asked simply.

            Angelina shifted slowly in her seat, leaning her cheek onto an upturned hand. "So you're saying...the curse kind of backfires..." she mused.

            Lupin smiled. "Yes and no. A curse—well, a curse can backfire literally, yes, in some cases." _A backfiring Unforgivable curse_. There was only one example he could think of, and he pushed it out of his mind. "But what I'm talking about is how casting a brutal curse affects the soul, or rather, how damaged a soul must first be in order to cast an Unforgivable. It's something of a closed loop, a, a...a circle of destruction. This type of dark magic—it circumvents the laws of the heart, as Aarons put it. It exists outside of time." 

            "But that isn't the curse affecting the soul, it's the soul affecting the curse," interrupted Melissa Yaxley. "So, you can't say casting an Unforgivable really does anything to your soul. I mean, whether or not you get, I don't know, _brain_ damage, and that's pretty rare, isn't it?"  

            Lupin exhaled and ran a hand through his thinning hair. He knew what he meant, what thoughts clung to the inside of the mind, but whether or not he could articulate them to a class of fifteen-year-olds...kids who had grown up safe, who had never made impossible choices, who were never forced to cast a spell that had left them nauseated, sweaty and disoriented in a public toilet far from home. Wherever that was. He thought of giving up, letting the class practice their shield charms and disabling jinxes. He didn't _need_ to force them to think critically about Defense. Lord knows it wasn't on the curriculum and since when were Hogwarts professors really evaluated on their performance, anyways? His predecessors certainly weren't. 

            Instead, he gently said, "It's something of a paradox. I know it must seem unfathomable, especially at your age." That was the wrong thing to say and he knew it even as he said it aloud and eyes rolled. He would have rolled his own eyes at their age. He probably had.

            "The dark arts...well, as you know, they are not a medium of magic, the way that charms or potions are. They're merely a classification based on intent..." Lupin started again, uncertainly. Where was he going with his? The students looked skeptical. "Part of what makes a form of magic dark is how inseparable its intended usage is from its successful practise. The Unforgiveable Curses, then, are not just unforgivable by the vast majority of wizarding society, or by the law. They are unforgivable by the soul itself, which may not recover from its abuse by the wizard's, er, shall we say, conscious mind."

            The class stared at him. He had lost their interest; he knew it now. Placing his wand down on his desk, Lupin noted the sticky fingerprints and dirty glaze coating the hand-grip. He would have to clean it later. Lupin disliked allowing his possessions to become damaged or unclean; it was much easier to take care of them then find the money to have them replaced.

            "Professor?" It was a Slytherin, Ptolemy or something, the boy with dark brown hair and a cold, closed expression. "Do we have to know this for OWLs _and_ the midterm?" He was twiddling his quill between his index and middle fingers, the way Padf—the way Black used to, when he was impatient in class. 

            "I wouldn't expect this to show up on OWL exams," Professor Lupin said gently, "but any material we cover in class is fair game for the test." At the class's communal sigh, he added, "But, as deep magic theory is _technically_ a subjective field, unlike spellwork, I will accept a range of interpretations on the ramifications of Unforgivable curses, as long as you show some reference to the source text in _Nox_. The students looked somewhat mollified by this, so he sat down at the desk and slipped his reading glasses on.

            "I'd like you to get into groups—not yet, Mr. and Mr. Weasley, but when I am finished speaking—and discuss the reading I assigned last class and how it relates to our discussion today. Feel free to agree or disagree with Icarus Pennants," he added. "This is an exercise in your ability to interpret magical law as it relates to the dark arts." Lupin flipped through the textbook, finding the stack of papers for marking that he had tucked between its musty pages. "Your homework today will be to write a short response to the discussions you have had with your groups. Any questions?"

            The children erupted into a flurry of noise. One student leaned forward across their desk abruptly and knocked over an inkwell onto the satchel of the student in front of her, while a Gryffindor and a Slytherin asked at the same time, "How many to a group?" then turned to each other and yelled "JINX! DOUBLE JINX!"           

            " 'Ow many inches do we 'ave to write?" whined Charlesworth, a scrawny Slytherin boy with matted blond hair.

            "TRIPLE JINX!"

            "Two to a group and nine to ten inches should be fine," said Professor Lupin, "although I'd advise you to make your point as clearly and concisely as possible. I will not take marks for a slightly shorter paper that—" 

            "—QUADRUPLE JINX—"          

            "—is not short on content. Brevity is the soul of wit, as they say," he added, giving the Weasley boys a sly grin. Both boys—or whichever one of them was responsible for doing the Defense homework (Lupin was not naive enough to believe that they hadn't worked out some more efficient system of getting schoolwork done) had been known to blow out essays into multiple pages by rephrasing the first paragraph over and over again in increasingly metaphorical terms.

            "—MERLIN WINKS, SNOG A SPHYNX, SAY THE RHYME OR YOUR MUM—"

            Lupin silenced them gently with a flick of his wand. "That will be enough, Lee, Marcus," he said. They protested silently, their mouths yelling wordlessly in tandem. "No need to worry, I respect the Laws of Jinx. You may both resolve this problem via silent thumb wrestle. Best two out of three. I will referee. The rest of you may get into your groups and start discussing the reading." He lifted the silencing spell.

            "Wow. I didn't know teachers understood about the Laws of Jinx," said Lee, sounding impressed. He leaned back in his seat, letting go of the desk in front of him to balance on the two back legs of his chair like a circus performer.

            "Oh, teachers understand the rules," Lupin replied airily, "we're just not obligated to abide by them anymore." Alicia Spinnet laughed, while Ptolemy sighed loudly with boredom.

            The rest of the class passed by fairly quickly. The kids were well-behaved, having been suitably entertained by Lee and Marcus's thumb war (Marcus won, having thumbs nearly three times as thick as Lee's, and wrists ribboned with muscle.) There were techniques to classroom management that were counter-intuitive, thought Lupin. Some teachers could command respect and obedience with strict rules and sharp glares. Others, like Filius Flitwick, ceded nearly all control of their class and gave in to controlled chaos, trusting in his students to practise their spellwork out of interest or enjoyment. Though Lupin wasn't old enough to have seen Dumbledore teach, he'd heard from others that Flitwick most resembled Dumbledore in his teaching methods, which seemed about right. He couldn't imagine the serene, good-humoured old man shouting over the laughter of children or assigning detentions for students having a chit chat.

            He didn't have that luxury. The kids were used to seeing their Defense professors come and ago like grammar school substitutes, and expected to be able to bully or outright ignore them into submission. Professor McGonagall had warned him as much. Aware of his shabby appearance, his fatigue and physical limitations, Lupin knew that his approach to the job would have to be much more proactive if he hoped of exerting any authority over his students. And unlike _Severus,_ thought Lupin with some mixture of amusement and contempt, he preferred not to use humiliation as a means of asserting his dominance in the classroom hierarchy.

            Lupin was not authoritarian by nature and had a long history of negative experiences with the figures who held the short reins of his life in clenched fists, loosening or tightening their hold on his autonomy for arbitrary reasons he was never privy to. Assigning a student detention, or some other form of punishment—even if it was well-deserved—tended to make him freeze up with self-doubt. He preferred to prevent the need to discipline any students in the first place, using a combination of passive tolerance of minor transgressions and the wry sense of humour he had honed from a young age.

            The noise level remained fairly steady in the class as the students (hopefully) discussed their reading and Lupin graded the papers he had tucked into his textbook. At one point, Lupin heard the soft whistle of an enchanted paper airplane soaring directly towards him and, without looking up, he knocked it out of the air with a quick brush of his wand. The Weasley twins—that was their style. More slapstick than artistic. They were good at what they did, but it was fairly juvenile humour, much less sophisticated in concept than the sort of pranks he had pulled with his friends, back in the day. In execution, they were flawless, though. James and Sirius hadn't achieved quite the same level of effortlessness in their hijinks until well into their sixth year. Now, the musical chalk had been elegant _and_ perfectly executed. In fact, he couldn't even guess who had come up with it. Whoever did it had obviously checked the Defense schedule to ensure that nobody would be in the classroom for enough time beforehand to charm the chalk without detection. Not only that, but if they were in Lupin's fifth-year Slytherin and Gryffindor class, they were maintaining a perfectly straight face.

            Lupin wrote a final comment onto a second year's essay in neat cursive and tucked the papers back into his textbook. He glanced at his watch.

            "Our class is done for today," he said. The class had already gotten up. Some students were shoving corked inkwells into their satchels while several others lingered in the doorway impatiently. "Please remember to write the response papers for your partnered discussions," added Professor Lupin, raising his voice above the growing din. "I will give extra marks for referencing the assigned readings from last—oh, hello, Fred," he said sheepishly to the redheaded boy leaning across his desk. "I've lost my audience already. Can I help you with something?"

            "I'm actually George."

            "Alright then, George," said Lupin, a slight smile creasing the corners of his eyes. "How can I help you?"

            "Well—it's actually about Mr. Filch—the caretaker?"

            "Yes..."

            "Well, see, my brother and I found out it's his birthday coming up next Friday, you know, and we thought—"

            "You thought you might give him a surprise." Lupin repressed a smirk. "That's, er...thoughtful of you."           

            "You know, Fred and me think he's probably our favourite staff member at Hogwarts," said the boy with a grin. "No offence to you or McGoogles," (at this Lupin's mouth twitched open and closed), "I mean McGonagall, but the amount of quality time we spend with Mr. Filch...it's a relationship we treasure. Strictly professional, though, of course."

            "And you wanted next Friday off...?" He sighed. "I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Weasley."

            "Oh no, not at all, Professor," Weasley backtracked. "Me and Fred would never miss an academic commitment voluntarily—well, except if its Binns' class, but I suppose you'd understand, seeing as he probably taught you too...?"           

            Professor Lupin chuckled. "Yes, I'm not _quite_ that old."

            "Oh, we know how old you are," Weasley assured him boastfully. "Thirty-three, isn't it?"

            Lupin raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

            "We didn't look it up, you know. G—My brother and I found your name in some...documents of purely historic interest."

             At this, Lupin blanched somewhat. Was it...did it have to do with— 

            "We were doing a bit of research on behalf of old Argus's special day, you know, trying to find out exactly what kind of surprise he'd most appreciate, and we found a few gems in the old detention records. Really interesting stuff," Weasley added, seeming to smirk at Lupin's reaction. The light filtering through stained-glass windows outlined the boy's freckled nose in bluish-green. Beneath the long nose was an easy grin, just this side of smug. The expression was pure James, all winking candor and lopsided grace. 

            "I see," said Lupin impenetrably. "And has your opinion of me as a teacher been so terribly undermined by your findings?"     

            "Of course. My apologies, sir, but I don't think I'll quite be able to respect the authority of a person whom I know to have been sighted atop Gryffindor Tower, standing on one foot, wearing only Professor McGonagall's tartan bathing suit and shooting porridge out of his wand at every passing raven whilst singing "My Beaters Lie Over the Ocean."           

            Lupin gave a curt smile. "I lost a bet." Something twinged down in his throat, painful but cathartic, as though a knot inside him had been untied to allow fresh air into his old lungs. It ached. It tingled.

            Then Weasley winked, and the ache disappeared. "Alright, Professor, here's the question. You tell us how you got Filch's dad's address for the trick with the exotic dancing centaurs and we forget about everything we found in the detention files. _Everything_ ," he emphasized sharply.           

            "Absolutely not." Even as he said it, it occurred to Lupin just whose name might have come upon alongside his in some of those files. But he could not afford to lose this job—and if they asked, he could fudge—but, then again...

            "But, Professor! You wouldn't be _helping_ us. You're just telling us, in theory, how to trace—"

            "Mr. Weasley," Lupin cut him off with a gentle shake of his head. "As your teacher, and as an employee of Hogwarts...this is not something I can know about."           

            "It's just a piece of information. It's not like we're going to, you know, pull the same prank as you did—though, nice job, by the way. We can't repeat a prank, it's against—"           

            "The Hellion's Prescript. Oh yes," he added as Weasley raised his ginger eyebrows, "that thing's been around for ages." Which was true, if you looked at it from a fifteen-year-old's perspective. "Now, I understand you and your brother have an, er, a tradition to uphold. And I realize there is not much I can do to stop you which hasn't already been unsuccessfully attempted by your Head of House." 

            "Oh, she's tried everything," he tossed off haughtily.           

            "Which is why," said Lupin, as he gathered his papers and tucked them into his briefcase neatly, "I will give you a favour and a warning. It is possible, though quite labour-intensive, to look through the Ministry's old records of registered wizarding households in Britain to find the address of any given registered household, though I cannot promise the archives in the Hogwarts library are up to date. This information is technically publically available and I am not prohibited from sharing it with you. _However_ ," and at this he snapped the clasps of his case shut for emphasis, "as your teacher, if I am the one to catch you engaging in any, er, lawbreaking or otherwise taboo behaviours, I'll have no choice but to...well, give you detentions, I suppose. I don't think they allow the sorts of punishments here anymore they used to give, back when I was here." He allowed himself a moment of fond reminiscience. Peter had been subjected to three hours of the tickling hex in the dungeon...poor old Peter.

            Weasley bowed. "Thank you, Professor. I knew you'd come through." He slung his canvas bag hover his shoulders and made to leave the classroom.            

            "Wait!" called Lupin. Weasley paused in the doorway. "I did not support or in any way encourage what may or may not transpire on Friday," he said strongly.

            "No, of course not."           

            "And I would appreciate it if that little anecdote about Gryffindor Tower did not...well, leave our confidences."

            "I have no idea what you're even referring to."

            Lupin nodded at him. "Thank you. Fred."           

            He tapped his wand on the blackboard in several places, trying to get a sense of the charm used for the musical prank. Weasley had already stepped out the arched, oaken doors when he paused and spun around.    

            "Wait. How'd you know—?" he asked, tentatively.

                       Professor Lupin stepped towards him. His facial expression was unreadable as a sphinx, one hand clutching lightly as his threadbare tie. "As your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, " he said, "I will tell you that it is important and useful to learn...to differentiate between people who, at first, seem as though they are...the same."


End file.
